Knew we were in trouble when it took him more than a half hour to take pictures of the outside of the buildings. Shifting and lowering the tripod to get the angle just right. Then moving a meter or two to the side. Taking two or three light meter readings for each shot, and then bracketing that average setting to make sure at least one of his images would have the perfect exposure.

And this with film, not digital.

I started doing the mental calculations of how long it would take him to take pictures of the inside.

Of the signature walls.

The tally came up in days, not hours. His compadre from Capital City was apparently making the same calculations, mentioning they might need to stay overnight...

A real perfectionist.

'Course, this is his profession, so I guess that's to be expected. That's why the outfit pays him money to do what he does.

I did mention this was probably the first time he got sent out to get pictures of something that doesn't move and run away. That you don't have to sneak up on.

So, to speed things, his partner and I served as gophers, fetching in all his equipment when it finally came time for the inside shots. The two professional, diffuse lamps and their stands. A case of cameras and assorted lenses, tripods. The gasoline powered generator to run the lamps, and all the associated power cords.

It took probably fifteen minutes for the first signature panel. The names and dates left on the bare wood walls in the ink used to mark and label bags of wool, starting around 1918 and running up through at least 1950.

Oookay. Let's see. There's probably an average of six signed panels between each pair of joists, and we got maybe 30 joists to go.

On this wall.

There's another 30 joists on the wall on the other side. Not to mention those signatures on the end wall.

And those up in the rafters.

Not to mention the pornographic and cartoon artwork (circa Katzenjammer Kids era) on the wall in the barracks.

Ohhhh, man. We're looking at weeks, here.

So I and his partner (who is actually his boss, or maybe his boss's boss, but that doesn't always matter in this outfit), did all we could to help. Shifting lights up and down, changing their angles.

I think the technical term for what I was doing is "grip".

Or maybe I was "best boy". Watched enough movie credits you'd think I'd know, but I don't.

Didn't help that the generator kept dying on us. The synchronized flash units were such a drain each time they were shot off, the machine couldn't keep up with the demands of the photographer.

Adjust the lights. Test flash with the meter. Then another test flash, to get an average. Then readjust the lights, and repeat.

Swimsuit models don't get their lighting so well measured and adjusted.

And it didn't help we were in an enclosed space with a running gasoline engine. With all the broken windows and gaps in the walls, floor and ceiling, they were sure we would be fine. But the blue fumes drifting around told me otherwise.

While all his shots were taken with flash, synchronized with those fancy 1200 and 1800 candle units, I took the opportunity to shoot a few of my own with his interior lighting.

Most the rest of my shots are crap. The digital machine just could not figure out where to focus in that dim light.

That's why we have the pro here.

So, you might be asking yourself, "Grouse, with all that time needed to shoot all those signatures, how did you manage to get back home by a little after two o'clock in the afternoon?"

Well.

You see that photo of the gas fumes up there?

And the chutes in the floor, where the shorn sheep were shoved down and out of the shearing shed?

Imagine, if you will, a photographer, breathing the same fumes as we have for the past hour or so, bending down to pull his camera and tripod farther from the wall, so that he might get two panels at a time. A concession to his grips, or best boys, or whatever you want to call us, to speed the process up.

And then, imagine that photographer halfway in one of those chutes, chest and face smashed flat on the dusty, dirty floor.

He thinks he just needs a chiropractor. His companion is sure he dislocated his shoulder. Me, I suspect he tore up his rotator cuff. But he refused any first aid, nor my suggestion of a quick stop at our hospital, instead preferring the three hour drive to medical care in his own town.

I suspect he's hoping it will all go away, given enough time.

I suspect he's wrong.

Either way, documentation of the signature wall will have to wait. And the room is again left to the packrats.

Boss says the next effort might be done with just a digital camera and flash.